


The Winters are so short

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Tree, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2016-12-06
Packaged: 2018-09-06 22:12:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8771404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: A change in routine.





	

“Leave it on,” Mary said from the couch. 

He’d gotten up first, clearing away the usual—their mugs, hers cocoa, his coffee since caffeine never kept him from sleeping, the nearly empty melamine bowl with a few unpopped kernels skittering around at the bottom, the latest copy of Brain, dog-earred and post-it-noted, the flannel shirt Mary had shed when she got too warm. He’d come back for round two; folding up the afghan made of granny squares by Mary’s own grandmother, whom he’d only met briefly but who was decidedly not square judging by the way she tossed back her bourbon neat and the abridged tales of working of Legal Aid, making sure the laptops were charging, and flicking off the lights before they headed to bed. He’d gone to the tree last. It was a bit smaller than what he remembered from his childhood, but they had a two bedroom apartment close to the T on two fellows’s salaries, so there were economies of scale to be made. Mary had insisted on getting a real tree and Sam had helped him carry it home, thank goodness. It was covered now in ornaments, silver tinsel and white lights that did not blink, until it seemed hardly any green needles were visible. It smelled like a snowy forest and Mary seemed to know exactly how to manage it so that no needles had dropped onto the gingham and rick-rack tree-skirt her mother had pressed on them the last time they met for brunch. He’d been about to hit the switch that would leave the room dark, the lit bedside lamp casting just enough light to guide the way down the hall.

“Yeah? Not like you, Miss Energy Efficiency,” he said, smiling at her in her tank top and yoga pants, her long, beautiful hair in a messy braid. He was the only one who saw this Mary, who was so professional at work in her spotless white coat, her badge always swinging evenly on its lanyard, fond of cardigans and cords and her favorite pearl studs when they hosted dinner, not parties per se, but gatherings, where other people showed up in tee-shirts, sports jerseys, all the fleece New England could support.

“It won’t be like this next year,” she said softly and he nodded. Would they even stay home for Christmas, with the baby? He imagined both sets of grandparents would be clamoring for a visit, to see just how adorable a sleeper decorated with all Santa’s reindeer could be, extra cuddles immortalized via iPhone instead of Kodak, but to be made into an album regardless.

“No, it won’t, will it?” he answered. It was a strange emotion, missing a past that was his present while simultaneously anticipating, most gladly, the future. 

“I feel like I can’t wait, sometimes, and then…it feels like it’s all going so fast. Everything’s in a rush and I just want to slow down, with you—that’s usually when the pager goes off,” Mary said, her voice half-dreamy and half-rueful, most lovable.

“I can do slow,” he said, coming back to the couch and rearranging them so they were lying down together, his hand on the small, firm swell of her belly, his mouth right by her ear, where he could touch her bare neck with his lips.

“Mmm. I like this,” Mary said and he felt the words as he heard them, stroked the skin under her tank top, wishing he could feel the baby move the way she could already. A few weeks, she’d said.

“Good. I aim to please,” he said, watching the Christmas lights shining in the branches, the glow fainter than candelight on the apples of Mary’s cheeks, the sleek line of her shoulder, reflected in her eyes as she craned up to kiss him, one hand extended to pull him down to her. It should have been awkward but she was still lithe and everything wonderful.

“You do, Jed. You do,” she replied between her kisses and then she stopped interrupting.

**Author's Note:**

> Today's prompt: Christmas Tree. I actually have a second story slated if I can get my act together to finish it, but if not, this'll have to do. I really enjoyed thinking about Jed and Sam lugging that tree home and inventing Mary's badass grandma (shall we say Gladys, called Grandma Glad for short?). 
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson, natch.


End file.
